I think it was the well-known Scots fisherman and part-time pornographer, Old Jock McSporran who once said 'There is no such thing as bad weather... only inappropriate clothing'. And ignoring his somewhat unusual proclivities, Old Jock did have a point. We awoke on Sunday to leaden skies and a lot of rain. A champagne breakfast did much to lighten our spirits and resembling that odd dance troupe who used to perform in oversized condoms, we set off for Dijon. The journey was, despite the rain, a cracker. Not a motorway in sight, winding B roads taking us south at the usual rate of knots and the countryside losing the drab flatness of northern France turning into rolling hills and striking fields of bright yellow rape. Pete has brought up the rear, so to speak, on much of the trip so far but when he sees the right stretch of road he's off on his Honda and past us all looking like Davros with a Saturn V up his backside. Only an indicator becoming detached at 138 prevented a liaison with the speed limiter.
On arrival in Dijon we took our custom to a very odd back street bar run by an Algerian chappy who spoke no English. We pigeoned our way through a conversation to the extent that after an hour we were on complimentary beers... not good as even as I write it is only 5.30pm. Could be a long night...
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